Christie Golden: The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm

He whirled, sweeping one sword parallel to the ground, biting through the armor of another guard. This one cried out in pain, falling to his knees. Varian kicked him in the face, then severed his head from his shoulders with the second sword. He didn't even see the head strike the ground, his eyes searching for where the next attack would be.

His team was already inside the High Seat, quickly and ruthlessly dispatching any opposition they found there. Of course, at this hour Moira would not be sitting on her stolen throne. She would be in one of the private back rooms, asleep, with her brat of a child.

Varian rushed forward, his focus narrowing so that the door to the false queen's private rooms was the only thing he thought of. He ran full tilt toward it, turning at the last minute to slam it with a plated shoulder. It did not yield. Again he slammed into it, and again, and then two more assassins were there, putting their shoulders to the task.

The door splintered, and they half - ran, half - fell inside. They were attacked almost at once. Varian heard a woman screaming and the shriek of a frightened infant. He paid it no mind, slashing out with his swords at the two dwarves who charged him. They fell quickly, their blood spattering him. One of his swords was lodged firmly in the midsection of one, and after a quick attempt to tug it free Varian abandoned the weapon. He whirled, gripping the remaining sword with both hands, and sought his prey.

Moira Bronzebeard, wearing a nightgown, her hair in disarray and her eyes wide with terror, stood on the bed. Varian ripped off the mask that had covered the lower part of his face, and Moira gasped with recognition. In two strides Varian had her. He seized her arm, hauling her off the bed. She struggled, but his hand had clamped down around her upper arm like a manacle.

She stumbled as he pulled her out of the room, but he didn't care. Varian marched out into the open area near the forge, where crowds were starting to gather, dragging the struggling dwarf behind him. He hauled her to him roughly with one arm.

His other hand was at her throat, pressing the sword against the pale flesh.

"Behold the usurper!" Varian cried, his identity no longer secret, his voice echoing in the vast space. "This is the child Magni Bronzebeard wept countless tears over. His beloved little girl. How sickened he would be to see what she's done to his city, his people!"

The gathered crowd stared. Even the Dark Irons did not dare make a move, not with their empress in such immediate jeopardy.

"This throne is not yours. You bought it with deceit, and lies, and trickery. You have threatened your own subjects when they have done nothing wrong, and bullied your way to a title you have not yet earned. I will not see you sit upon this stolen throne one moment longer!"

"Father!"

The voice cut through the haze of Varian's rage, and for just an instant the blade he held to Moira's throat wavered. Then he recovered. He did not take his eyes from the dwarf as he replied.

'You shouldn't be here, Anduin. Get out. This is no place for you."

"But it is my place!" The voice was coming closer, moving through the crowd toward him. Moira's gaze darted from Varian to, presumably, his son, but she made no attempt to beg for aid. Probably because she knew any movement other than her eyes would result in the sword's being plunged deep into her pale throat.

'You sent me here! You wanted me to get to know the dwarven people, and I have. I knew Magni well, and I was here when Moira came. I saw what turmoil her arrival brought. And I saw that things got far too close to civil war when people reached for weapons to solve their problems with her. Whatever you may think of her, she is the rightful heir!"

"Maybe her blood's right," snarled Varian, "but her mind's not. She's under a spell, Son; Magni always thought so. She tried to keep you prisoner. She's holding a bunch of people for no reason." Making sure his grip was solid, he turned his head slightly. "She's not fit to be leader! She's going to destroy all that Magni tried to do! All that he… he died for!"

Anduin stepped forward, a hand outstretched imploringly. "There's no spell, Father. Magni wanted to believe there was rather than the truth—that he drove Moira away because she wasn't a male heir."

Varian's black brows drew together. 'You spit on the memory of an honorable man, Anduin."

Anduin didn't flinch. 'You can be an honorable man and still make mistakes," he continued implacably. His father's cheeks darkened, and he knew he didn't need to say anything else. "Moira was accepted among the Dark Irons. She fell in love, she married within the laws of her people, she bore her husband a child. She's the rightful dwarven heir of the dwarven people. They need to decide whether to accept her or not. It's not our place."

"She held you hostage, Anduin!" Varian's voice echoed, and Anduin flinched slightly. 'You, my son! She can't be allowed to get away with that! I won't let her hold you and a whole city prisoner. I won't, do you understand?"

His boy, his beautiful son… it was hard not to simply bellow in anger and plunge the blade into the usurper's neck. To not rejoice in the feel of hot, wet blood spurting over his hand. To know that the threat to his son was forever ended. He could do it. He could do all that. And how he wanted to.

"Then let her answer to the law, to her people, for what she has done to them. Father—you're a king, a good one, one who wants to do the right thing. You believe in the law. In justice. You're not some—some vigilante.

Destruction…" Anduin paused in midsentence, a strange but calm look coming over his young face, as if remembering something. "Destruction is easy. Creating something good, something right, something that lasts—that's what's hard. It'd be easy to kill her. But you have to think of what's best for the people of Ironforge. For the dwarves—all of them. What is wrong with the dwarves' deciding how much or how little they want to participate in the world's politics? What's wrong with reaching out to the Dark Irons if they are amenable?"

There were some slight murmurings. Varian looked around, nostrils flaring. Rohan cleared his throat.

"The lad speaks true, Yer Majesty. Summat o' what Moira says is wisdom. Now, how she's gone about it—right foolish. But she's our princess, in the end. And once she's proper crowned, our queen."

"If Moira dies and there is no clear heir, civil war will erupt!" Anduin continued. "Do you think that's what's best for the dwarven people? Do you think that's what Magni would want? This might bring Stormwind into the war, too—or the night elves, or the gnomes. Can you make the decisions for them, too?"

Varian's hand was trembling slightly now, and Moira let out a little squeak as the blade nicked her throat. A single drop of red blood dewed the sword.

You're not some—some vigilante.

Destruction is easy.

I do want to do what's right—what's just, Varian thought wildly. But how do I create something that lasts? She is the rightful heir, and, yes, the dwarves might turn on one another. It's not my place to do this. This is their city, their queen or their pretender. If we could only find Brann or Muradin, we—

He blinked.

"Much as I wish it weren't true," he said harshly to Moira, who stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes, "yours is the rightful claim to the throne. But just like me, Moira Bronzebeard, you need to be better than you are.

You need more than just a bloodline to rule your people well. You're going to have to earn it."

He shoved her away. She staggered back but made no attempt to flee. How could she? She was encircled by the populace of the city she had tried to rule with a cruel, arrogant hand.

"You obviously can't be trusted to have free rein over Ironforge. Not by yourself, not yet. You've made that amply clear. These people aren't just the Dark Iron dwarves you're used to lording over. The dwarves have three clans. Dark Iron, Bronzebeard, and Wildhammer. You want to bring the dwarven people together? Fine. Then each of those clans needs a representative. A voice, which, by the Light, you will listen to!" He was working it through as he spoke. The Wildhammers, it was true, had demonstrated little interest in Ironforge and had their own holdings elsewhere. They were their own nation; Moira would not be their queen.